


i never went to beauty school

by teenagedaze



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: All those in one story I'm not even sure how I managed that, Angst, Blowjobs, Fluff, Gratuitous Descriptions of Makeup, M/M, Makeover, Makeup, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6678427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenagedaze/pseuds/teenagedaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete's maybe into more makeup than just eyeliner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i never went to beauty school

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be around 2000 words. I guess it would be fair to say it got a little out of control, but I'm proud of it nonetheless. Maybe the longest thing I've ever written (and as a person who doesn't wear makeup, let's just say that I now know a lot more than I did last week)
> 
> Gift for @patrick-is-trohmosexual and @trans-n-pans on Tumblr.

1.

“Patrick, can you come here for a minute?” Pete called, from behind his dressing room door.

Patrick had learned the hard way to always be wary of phrases like that. Vague, away from the public eye and uttered by Pete Wentz, it was more than likely to be trouble. That phrase, in the past, had preceded all kinds of happenings. Most often pranks, jokes at Patrick’s expense or the reveal of Pete’s latest regrettable tattoo. He was pretty certain he’d had nightmares that started with that phrase. 

Patrick replied cautiously, “What is it, Pete?” 

“I need your help.” There was pause, before Pete added, “Please.”

If anything, that made Patrick even more suspicious. If Pete wanted help, honestly wanted help, he wouldn’t be shy enough about it to add formalities. That’s what happens when you live with the same three people in confined spaces for months, the entire concept of decorum and politeness gets thrown out of the window somewhere on the I-57. He wondered if they drove back past if he could pick them up again, sometimes. Not that he didn’t appreciate the friendships and the closeness, but he occasionally wished for a little more tact.

“What have you got stuck, and where?” He demands, because it’s not too bad if Pete’s just got his finger stuck in the faucet again, but if it’s anything else then he’s calling Joe to deal with this instead.

“Nothing, nothing, I promise, Patrick.” Pete assures him.

Patrick opened the door slowly, revealing that Pete was pacing quickly back and forth across the dressing room. His shoulders were tense as wrapped his arms around Patrick’s waist, and Patrick returned the gesture without hesitation. When he pulled back, his eyebrow raised in a silent query. If it was anyone but Pete,they might have assumed his expression was mocking or sarcastic. Pete just took it for the question that it was.

Pete nervously ran a hand through the short hair at the back of his head, “I kind of drank too much coffee and now my hands are shaking.” 

“Okay.” Patrick accepted, “What do you want me to do about it?”

Pete looked at the floor, embarrassed. There was a flush rising on his cheeks, and Patrick was wondering at the significance of that when Pete gestured half-heartedly to the small bag of makeup he carried around with him. 

“Oh, you need help with your eyeliner? That’s fine, man.” Patrick reassured him, “I can’t promise I’ll be any good at it though.”

“Thanks.” Pete replied quietly, handing Patrick was the bag.

It was small, about the size of a wallet, and it was covered in glittering skulls. He’d probably bought it at Claire’s, but the makeup inside was a better quality than that. There wasn’t much, only two eyeliner pencils and some concealer (because contrary to popular belief, Pete’s face suffered from his sleepless night as much as anyone else’s would), but Patrick was fine with that. Anything else would have had him lost completely on what to do.

The two eyeliner pencils were near identical, just two different brands of the same ink-black, though one was drastically shorter than the other. Patrick chose to use the shortest one, because the longer pencil seemed intimidating and unwieldy and after all, he really didn’t want to end up poking Pete in the eye. After directing Pete to sit down, Patrick became aware that his own hands were slightly unsteady, from pre-show nerves and proximity to Pete’s face. Despite that, he was pretty sure he managed to draw two fairly even (if thick) lines around Pete’s eyes. 

“There.” He declared, kind of proud of how decent it looked, even if it was a little more than what Pete would usually wear.

Pete’s eyes flickered open, and for a moment Patrick wondered if he’d hallucinated Pete’s intense, no-blinking stare through the whole procedure before he realised that he’d probably just closed his eyes as Patrick took his hands away. It was more intense than he’d imagined doing someone’s makeup to be, but he thought maybe that was just because Pete was intense about most things. He looked to the mirror before smiling back at Patrick, apparently pleased with the look that he’d created.

“Patrick, this is amazing!” He enthused, twisting his head to inspect himself from every possible angle, “I look the angsty goth I always dreamed of.”

Patrick laughed, “Dreaming you were an angsty goth or dreaming of banging an angsty goth? It’s an important distinction.”

“Being, usually.” Pete clarified, still checking himself out in the LED-lit mirror, “I do look pretty hot.” 

Patrick thought, he’s not wrong.

“You can go find a mirror to jerk off with after the show, but we’re running a little tight on time.”

 

\-----  
2.

 

Pete was always more nervous about interviews than he was shows. There was all of this preliminary anxiety, keeping him up until the early hours with worries like are the questions scripted? Will there be a studio audience? Is it live or pre-recorded? Will they ask me about the dick pic again? He knew that he’d requested that they avoid certain questions, but he knew all too well that those memos didn’t always get delivered to the interviewer. Sometimes, people just liked to watch him stutter his way through a personal answer because he’d never learned how to say ‘no comment’. 

This particular interview, the one he was supposed to be on stage for in ten minutes, was one of the few where they were treated to a full costume, hair and makeup department. Patrick, his sole companion and saving grace for the day, had sat through the whole rigamarole with little resistance. Pete didn’t know what they’d done, exactly, it was subtle and soft-looking on Patrick’s pale skin. Pete had watched from his own station in the dressing room as they’d smoothed Patrick’s skin and put something in his hair that made it look silkier than usual. They’d let him look through all the hats in the costume department’s hat cupboard, and he’d still picked a ratty old baseball cap, but he seemed happy about it.

Unlike Patrick, whatever they’d done to Pete’s face made him look like a wax figure. A mannequin to which they’d affixed a wig and labelled ‘Pete Wentz’. He could feel the stiff spray in his hair and the foundation caked on his face, and he wanted to claw it all off and become himself again. There was a bathroom down the hall he could run to quickly before they got called up, if he excused himself right there and then. He thanked the staff around him and smiled at them, that perfect, plastic, Ken-doll grin, before scrambling out of the door and into the gray hallway.

He heard the scuffle of Patrick excusing himself to follow, because he knew that Patrick would recognise the panic in his voice. By the time Patrick was out of the dressing room, though, Pete was already standing over the sink, trying to wash off the makeup by splashing his face with water. It wasn’t working, they’d used good brands that were designed to last, so he tried scrubbing his face with a flannel instead.

Patrick walked in to the sight of Pete raking his nails down his face, drawing lines in the foundation. Thankfully his nails were short, but his face looked red and sore nonetheless. It was a blessing that he hadn’t managed to draw blood, because if he had then Patrick would have cancelled the interview on the spot. As one of Pete’s hands kept scraping at his face, the other had moved to pull through his hair. Patrick didn’t think Pete had noticed him walking in.

“Pete?” Patrick interrupted, “Calm down for a second. Let me help.”

Pete wasn’t thinking, and he wasn’t stopping. Patrick reached out to grab his wrists, a move he hated to pull, and Pete’s movements slowed. He was crying, and Pete’s crying always threatened to break Patrick’s heart whenever he heard it, so he cooed softly. He released Pete’s wrists in favour of wrapping him up in a tight hug, and his stroked his hair gently where Pete’s pulling had tangled it. Pete was shaking, sobbing into Patrick’s shoulder, when Patrick finally let go and stepped back.

“You’re alright.” Patrick soothed, “Do you want me to sort it out? Just eyeliner, maybe your usual concealer?”

Pete nodded, silent. Patrick examined his face from where he stood, looking at the tear-tracks and the red paths of his nails. It didn’t look comfortable, and he wanted to find a way of helping.

“You know what, I’m going to go and ask if they have any moisturising cream.” Patrick suggested.

“Don’t.” Pete protested, leaping forward to stop him, “They’ll know.”

“Maybe, but you won’t be there. They won’t be disappointed, Pete.” Patrick reassured.

“They will. I just ruined all the work they did.” Pete insisted, “I just feel really bad about it.”

Pete was still crying quietly, tears stinging at the rawness of his skin. Patrick could practically see the vicious cycle of thoughts in his head. Pete shouldn’t feel bad, he’d been perfectly nice to the makeup team and it’s not like they would be distraught over the loss of their work, if they knew what happened. He was pretty certain that they’d be pretty understanding.

“Don’t, it’s not your fault. It’s not like you wanted this to happen either.” Patrick told him, “I’m going to go ask.”

He hugged Pete once more before he left, and his breathing had evened out from the frantic gasps it had been a moment earlier. He went back into the dressing room and approached the lady who seemed to be in charge of the team, with her perfect curls and bright red lips. She’d been calmly directing the other makeup artists as they’d added products to Patrick’s hair and highlights to his face.

“Hey, I’m really sorry about this, but I was wondering if you have any moisturiser? And maybe some face wipes?”

“Of course,” She answered, and Patrick was tempted to compliment her friendliness, “Here you go.”

When he’d returned to Pete, everything was a little bit calmer. He wasn’t crying, and he wasn’t shaking, but he was sitting silently against the wall of the small room. Patrick pulled him up when Pete offered his arm, and then got him to sit on the edge of the counter so that Patrick was in a better position to help. Pete smiled as Patrick got the jar of moisturiser out of his pocket, but it looked pained.

“I’m just going to get the last of it off, and then I’ll do the moisturiser.” Patrick told him.

Pete nodded, “Alright. Is it going to hurt?”

Patrick considered the acidic smell of the wipes and Pete’s irritated skin, “I guess it might sting, but only a little bit. It won’t hurt too much.”

He took one wipe out of the packet before slowly drawing it down Pete’s face. If it hurt, he didn’t react to it, but the wipe came away stained with thick, cream foundation. Pete’s destructive efforts had managed to clear the majority of the makeup from his face, but it had left inflamed tracks on down his cheeks and on his forehead. Patrick used only three of the wipes until Pete’s face was clear, but he was glad to be able to move on to the cream.

Patrick unscrewed the lid and said, “This should feel really nice, okay. Cold, but nice.”

“Cold but nice.” Pete muttered, repeating Patrick’s words hollowly for his own comfort.

Pete found comfort in Patrick’s narration, the way he kept his voice low and steady like a support beam beneath his actions. The cream on Patrick’s fingers was indeed cold, but it was cold in a soft way, not like harsh winter winds but more like a mint candy. His face was warm where the blood had surged up beneath his scratches, and it was a nice feeling. The cream, and Patrick’s fingers, were smooth and relaxing on his face. Once Patrick had finished and massaged the cream into Pete’s skin, he felt a lot more comfortable.

“Do you have your own makeup with you? I assumed you brought it.” Patrick asked.

Pete agreed, “Yeah, in my hoodie pocket.”

Patrick waited as Pete drew the makeup out of his pocket. It was a lot less high-end than what the makeup team had used, but it was Pete’s normal and he felt more confident wearing it, “Alright.” 

It didn’t take long after that for Patrick to dab Pete’s face with concealer, Pete directing him where to put it when Patrick had expressed his confusion. Then was eyeliner, familiar territory, though Patrick felt he did it a little better that time than the first. Last time, it had been clearly distinct from Pete’s usual style, heavier and thicker because of Patrick’s lack of skill. Now, it didn’t look much different from when Pete did it himself. 

Patrick scooped his hat from his own head and gave it to Pete, covering up the tangle of hair that had been set in by the spray. At Pete’s nervous expression, Patrick decided to give some final reassurance before they went to get mic’d up, “You’re gonna be fine, yeah? It’s not live, you have nothing to worry about.”

“What if they ask really shitty questions, though, Patrick?” Pete asked, scuffing his shoe on the ground in a nervous motion.

Patrick shook his head, “I’m there. I’ll deflect if the interviewer gets cocky about it. Promise.”

“Thank you.” Pete answered, “You’re a lifesaver.”

 

\-----  
3.

 

“I have a date.” 

Pete’s announcement was spoken to a near-silent room, only over the quiet chatter of the television in the hotel room. Patrick was laying on the other bed, on his front, with his laptop nestled in front of his face. He looked up when Pete spoke, like his announcement was less of a declaration and more a conversation point he wasn’t sure how to pick up on.

“When?” Patrick asked, finally.

Pete enthused, “Like, real soon. I need to look perfect, Patrick, and I only look perfect when you’ve done my makeup.”

Patrick wanted to protest, because Pete looked pretty perfect all time anyway, and also because he didn’t really want to involve himself in Pete’s date, because that’s all Pete would talk about. However, the last time Patrick had visited home he’d asked his sister for advice on doing makeup, and he had some pretty cool tricks he wanted to try out. Maybe he could aim for the best of both worlds.

“You look great all by yourself, Pete. Though, I’m happy to help.” 

Pete smiled, heading to the hotel desk where he’d left his makeup bag, neatly placed next to the tea-tray and zipped up. Patrick walked up behind him and spun Pete’s chair around so that he was facing Patrick rather than the mirror, and turned on one of the desk lights so that he could see what he was doing. Patrick was focused, looking over Pete’s face with a calmness and seriousness that Pete trusted more than anything else. 

Patrick gently took the makeup bag from Pete’s hands, “Have you got any eyeliner that isn’t death-black?”

“I have some brown, is that okay?” Pete answered.

“Couldn’t have anything better.” Patrick smiled, explaining “Brown’s good, because it’s dark enough to make your eyes stand out, but it’s subtle and softer than the black. Black is great for shows and for yourself, but brown just feels more date-like. It’s a little more natural.”

“Like, more intimate?” Pete added, “Also, when the fuck did you go to beauty school, Frenchie?”

“Shut the hell up, Pete. I asked my sister for some makeup advice because if this is becoming a regular thing then I want to know what I’m doing.” 

Patrick would be lying if he said that Pete saying the word ‘intimate’ didn’t send shivers down his spine. He paused for a moment, before returning his attention to Pete’s eyes as he drew two delicate lines. He didn’t stop where he usually would, adding small wings to each side. The deep brown of the eyeliner helped the colour of Pete’s own eyes stand out, and Patrick was finding the whole makeup-and-proximity situation a little more difficult than before.

“Do you want me to do anything else other than eyeliner?” Patrick asked, looking through Pete’s collection. It had grown since last time, now including two mascaras, eyeshadows, and a colourless lip gloss. There was a single pan of blush, as well, along with a small selection of brushes.

“Whatever you think, Patrick.” Pete answered, “I’m pretty sure you know more about this than I do.”

Patrick snorted ungracefully, “Come on, Pete. You can’t be that bad at it. At least ten people at any given meet-and-greet tell you of high highly they regard your face, and you’ve been doing this yourself for years.”

“Yeah, but I never bothered to learn anything about it besides what goes where.” Pete replied, “You know, like, the theory or something. It’s really cool of you to do that for me, you know.”

Patrick willed himself not to blush, but he reminded himself that he wouldn’t be the only one. Pete had a different attitude towards Patrick doing than his makeup than he did with other things, and it was endearing. He was shy about asking, usually directing Patrick towards the question rather than asking it himself and he was always flushed and flustered while Patrick manhandled his face. 

“It’s no problem, seriously. It’s kind of fun, actually.” Patrick reiterated, “As I said, if it’s becoming a thing then I want to be able to do it properly.”

Pete hesitated, “A thing?”

“Yeah, a thing. Like all of those other things that we have. That spin jump you do on stage, how you go into the crowd during ‘Saturday’, the way that you always type in lower-case to seem edgy. A thing.” Patrick explains, though he’s not sure he articulated it as well as he’d hoped. It was more than those things, the makeup was a bigger thing than all of those combined.

“Those things are like, things I do for other people, though. And this is your thing just as much as it is mine. This is more like the thing when I try and kiss your neck on stage. Or when I steal your hat on the bus. It’s an us thing, not a public thing.”

Patrick was going to have to do some long, in-depth thinking about what Pete meant when he said that the stage-kissing thing wasn’t just for the crowd’s sake. Knowing that might make it a little less harder to brush off and cope with, in future.

As they’d been talking, Patrick had applied the mascara to Pete’s lashes and the blush to his cheeks. He refrained from eyeshadow, because he wasn’t sure who Pete’s date even was and how accepting they were of Pete even wearing makeup. He didn’t want to have to be conservative. He wanted Pete to look however he wanted, no matter who was around. But Patrick wouldn’t want to be responsible for scaring Pete’s date off before he’d even had a chance. He’d feel so guilty.

“Done, look. You’re all pretty again.” Patrick declared, turning Pete around to face the mirror.

Pete’s face spread into a slow, easy smile. He looked at himself in the mirror the same way he had the first time, when he looked like he wanted to step through the glass and jump himself. His face looked more feminine, with the blush high on his cheeks and the true blush pink beneath it, and when he directed his gaze to Patrick it was all he could not to spin Pete back around and kiss him.

Turns out Pete made the decision for him, but not quite in the way he’d hoped. Pete stood up and wrapped an arm around Patrick’s shoulders, pressing a friendly kiss to his temple.

“Thanks, Patrick.” 

“You’re welcome.” Patrick replied as Pete gathered his things, “Hope you have fun on your date.”

 

\-----  
4.

 

“Patrick,” Pete said, quietly, “Are you asleep?”

Patrick rolled over on his side to face Pete’s bed, “No, I’m not. What’s wrong?”

“Just,” There was a pause, an exhale, “Me, I guess.”

Patrick sat up and pushed the covers down the bed, swinging his legs out of the side. Pete was curled up on top of his duvet, still in his hoodie and jeans, staring back at him. Patrick moved over to sit next to Pete on the bed he’d chosen, the one nearest the window. He wasn’t crying, and he hadn’t been, but he looked blank. 

“Am I a bad person?” Pete asked, his voice numb-sounding.

Patrick answered simply: “No.”

“Not even for the whole thing with Jeanae? For all the arguments where I know you’re right but want to fight about it anyway? Not for putting you up on a pedestal I don’t know how to get you down from?” Pete continued, “You said I make you feel guilty, Patrick. I don’t want you to feel bad.”

“You’re not a bad person.” Patrick repeated, clarified, “I’m sorry for what I said. I’m not saying it’s not true, but I’m sorry for aiming it at you that way.”

Pete raised an eyebrow, sarcastically responding, “Who else were you going to aim it at?”

“Myself. For letting you put me on that pedestal even when I knew it would break down?” Patrick admitted, “It’s not your fault, Pete. I shouldn’t have gone with it, tried to live up to it. I can’t be perfect, but you loved the perfect Patrick so much that I couldn’t bring myself to protest.”

There was a moment’s quiet, Pete uncurling so that he could sit up next to Patrick. It was one the only quiet moments they’d shared recently, aside from when they were both asleep. Patrick could barely remember what things felt like a year ago, before all of the arguments and the passive-aggression. It seemed to be that they no longer solved disagreements with a simple fistfight and move-on, every single dispute was a drawn-out Cold War between all four of them. It was messy, with side-taking and finger-pointing. Both of them appreciated the silence.

“I love imperfect Patrick just as much.” Pete told him, “I’m sorry I didn’t do enough to make you see that from the beginning.”

Patrick nodded, “I know. Really, in my rational mind, I know you always have.”

Pete was still on that streak of self-condemnation, though, because he started rambling, “It’s too late now, though. It’s too late because I wasn’t good enough to you and now we’re breaking up and I know we’re calling it a hiatus but it’s not really, is it?”

“It is.” Patrick insisted.

“I’m not stupid, Patrick. I made you all hate me and now you’re leaving. Andy and Joe and you, and all of the crew and the fans and everyone. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“That’s why we’re taking the break. We all need to figure out how to live like independent people. I’m just as scared, Pete.”

Pete paused at that, seeming to drag himself out of his own depths for a moment to consider what Patrick was saying. He pulled his knees in close to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, frowning.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s no fun for you either. I’m being selfish.” 

Patrick shhh’d him, an action he was not unused to performing and a response Pete was not unused to receiving. It felt familiar, like the silence did, that Patrick still calmed him down the same way he used to in the van or on the bus, crowded into Pete’s bunk because he’d heard Pete crying and couldn’t pass without trying to make him feel better. Pete thought it might be a compulsion thing, because Patrick was kind to everyone whether he liked them or not, but he knew from what Patrick had just told him that it wasn’t just that.

“I’m going to show you how amazing you are because I know you’re not a bad person, Pete. I care about you.” Patrick told him, “I’m going to show you.”

Patrick stood up, suddenly. The shift in gravity on the bed nearly knocked Pete over, but his eyes were following Patrick’s every movement. He didn’t know what Patrick meant until he returned from the bathroom with Pete’s makeup bag in his left hand, a glass of water in his right. He turned the overhead light on as he passed by the switch, and Pete’s eyes burned before they adjusted.

“What are you doing?” He asked, still kind of tired-dumb, “Patrick, it’s not-”

“Shut up. I know it’s not an appropriate time, or whatever. It’s three in the morning. I don’t care.” Patrick asserted, “It’s therapeutic, or something. Self-esteem shit.”

In spite of himself, Pete barked out a laugh, “I’m sure my psych would agree.”

“Oh, definitely. They love all that emotional health and mindfulness crap.” Patrick answered, half-joking and half not, “I want you to like yourself. Not just how you look, but it’s a start, you know?”

“What are you going to do? All-out?” Pete wondered.

Patrick nodded firmly, “All-out. Full makeover, lip gloss if you want it. Hair, if you want it.”

Pete considered for a moment, “My hair’s alright. Kind of messy, but that probably fits the look. Lip gloss would be nice, though.”

Patrick looked around the room before asking, “Can you sit up, slightly? If you sit on the bed and I sit on the chair, you should be slightly higher than me.”

That wasn’t the way he normally did it, but this wasn’t the usual circumstance. This was the first time he’d been doing Pete’s makeup for nobody but Pete, and it felt more intimate. He didn’t want Pete to just sit there and let it happen, he wanted Pete to direct him and take control of how he wanted himself to look, how he wanted to feel.

“You usually want me lower. I thought it was easier for you to do that way.”

Patrick explained, “It is, but this is about you. This isn’t for anyone else, Pete, and I need you to be able to look in the mirror and tell me what it looks like, what you want me to do.”

Pete nodded, and considered himself in the mirror. He looked washed-out, pale from exhaustion and world-weariness. He had more insecurities, more imperfections and blemishes, than ever before. Patrick really had his work cut out for him, taking on Pete’s mind and his face like this.

“Okay. Start with primer, then foundation and concealer?”

“Didn’t know you had primer.” Patrick commented, like it was a normal topic of conversation between them.

Pete elaborated a little on how it had come into his possession, “It’s a recent addition. I went into Sephora and one of the staff suggested it. I haven’t used it yet.”

“It’s a nice one.” Patrick said, as he started dipping his fingers into the cream and applying it to Pete’s face, “How does it feel?” 

“Smooth.” Pete breathed, “Nice.”

Patrick hummed, gently rubbing it into Pete’s skin, “Bet it felt nice going into a place like Sephora all by yourself, as well.”

“Yeah, it was good. Felt like I could be pretty. Like it was nothing to be ashamed of that I can be pretty.” Pete said, watching himself in the mirror as his cheeks flushed at the memory.

“You are pretty.” Patrick stated, like it was fact, “What next? Bronzer?”

“Yeah. Then blush.” 

Patrick nodded, reaching behind him to pick out the two pans of powder and brushes, “Okay, I’ll do it light so it doesn’t look over-the-top.”

The brushes were new, and Patrick assumed that Pete had bought those on his makeup shopping trip as well. He could tell that they tickled, because Pete’s nose wrinkled as he started to brush them over his cheekbones, sweeping it lower to highlight and showcase the shape of his face. The bronzer looked nice with Pete’s complexion, and the blush mimicked his natural one. Pete’s real blush was lighter and less obvious than Patrick’s, which was unattractive and made him look like an embarrassed tomato, and it was actually sort of becoming.

Patrick cleared his throat, “Eyeliner? Pencil or liquid?” 

“Liquid.” Pete chose, “Please. The deep brown.”

Patrick picked it up from within the mix and examined the packet, “Good colour. Rich.”

“It’s one of my favourites.” Pete agreed, “Eyeshadow next?”

“Of course.” Patrick said, staring straight into Pete’s hooded eyes, “Open your eyes fully, Pete? It just makes it easier.”

Once Patrick had finished the eyeliner, a slow and measured flick at the edge of each honey-brown eye, Pete glanced at himself in the mirror, “Fuck, Trick, you’re so good at this.”

“I try my best.” Patrick joked, his voice dropping slightly, involuntarily, “What lip gloss colour were you thinking?”

Pete leaned forward so that his face was level with Patrick’s. Not only level, but so close that Patrick could feel Pete’s warm, shallow breaths across his face and throat. Pete was invading his personal space more than he ever had before, and Patrick was worried by how comfortable he was with that. It should be uncomfortable, and he should want to move away but-

“I like the coral one, it’s peach-flavoured.” Pete answered, his tone now downright sultry, “Plus, it makes my lips the same pretty colour as yours.”

Patrick took a sudden, deep breath and leaned away. The gasp still felt like it was caught in his throat, but it wasn’t, he just didn’t know how to articulate what he wanted to say. There were so many options to take, so many paths he wanted to follow (primarily kissing Pete and then letting Pete fuck him however he wanted, however he needed, because Patrick wanted and needed exactly the same).

He choked on air a little, stumbling over the answer he wished he didn’t have to give, “Whatever you’re thinking and wherever you’re going with this, Pete, you’ve got to stop. This is about making you feel good. I’m not going to do something that’ll only make you feel guilty later.”

He had to ignore the hurt in Pete’s eyes, his perfectly lined eyes, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand his ground if he did. He forced himself to ignore his own hurt, determined not to give in even as Pete protested, “Patrick-”

“No.” Patrick snapped, “When I’m finished, I’m going to leave the room and go for a walk. You’re going to sort yourself out, and maybe call your girlfriend.”

“Ashlee.” Pete said, and it sounded like a perfect cadence. Like an ending.

“Yeah, Ashlee.” Patrick repeated, and as he said it he felt hollow, “I’m sorry. I’m not going to play a part in ruining the one thing that makes you happiest. You’d hate yourself, and you’d probably hate me.”

He picked up the lip gloss and his hands were shaking, his hands were shaking worse than Pete’s had been when he first asked Patrick to help him with this. He willed himself to calm down even though he had a weight of sadness pressing down on his shoulders, and it was so hard not to think of Pete the way he always had. It was so difficult to keep his eyes and his mind away from the dream of kissing Pete when he was literally inches from his lips.

“You need to ‘sort yourself out’ as well.” Pete observed, gesturing down to Patrick’s hard-on and raising an eyebrow, “I could help.”

Patrick stood up and stepped away, nearly tripping over with the force and the speed behind it. He turned to gather Pete’s makeup back into the bag, no longer that tiny Claire’s bag and now a more tasteful, confident makeup case. Pete was staring at him, he could see it in the mirror as he zipped the bag closed and he hated himself for being stupid enough to break his own heart trying to fix Pete’s. He changed into yesterday’s discarded jeans and toe’d on his sneakers before opening the door.

“You’re beautiful, Pete.” He said, trying his best not to sound as cold as he felt, “Call your girlfriend.”

 

\-----  
5.

 

There was a knock on the door.

“Pete, it’s me, Patrick.” He heard a familiar voice call, and he must have heard Pete moving around because he continued, “I was just in town and wondered if you wanted to hang out, if you’re not busy.”

It broke Pete’s heart slightly that Patrick even had to ask. He thought he’d been clear that he’d always have time for Patrick, but he guessed it hadn’t been so obvious lately. He’d been spending all of his time with Ashlee and all of his money down on Rodeo, and he hadn’t found the time to keep in touch. He hadn’t been purposefully ignoring Patrick, he’d just got caught up throwing himself headfirst into that Los Angeles lifestyle.

Pete flung open the door, wide and grinning, and Patrick looked so different. He was newly skinny and newly blonde, the perfect Californian Barbie doll, and Pete wondered if that meant that he’d changed his mind about the Golden State. He was the one thing that Pete’s new city didn’t have, and now he was there. Patrick was in LA, and he was tiny. Pete drew him for a hug, strong arms tight around Patrick’s angular shoulders. He was worried for a moment that Patrick wouldn’t smile back, but when Pete pulled away he was grinning just as brightly as Pete himself.

Grinning, and staring at Pete’s mouth. He was flattered, sure, but it was a little more brazen than Patrick’s usual attitude. Pete’d had his suspicions, and his hopes, but then he remembered something that might explain Patrick’s fascination with his mouth. He was wearing bright, rose-red lipstick. Pete raised a hand to face self-consciously.

“Have you seriously not gotten any better at makeup?” Patrick laughed, “You’ve had the time, dude, you need to learn.”

Pete shrugged, glad that Patrick was taking it lightly, “I guess it has been a while, huh?”

“Yeah,” Patrick sighed, “I suppose it has.”

He stepped back to let Patrick inside, still staring as Patrick removed his coat and reached up to place it on one of the hooks behind the door. He was wearing a slim-fit suit, electric blue, and was trailing a small suitcase behind him. Though he was smiling, he looked tired; he must have got a taxi straight from the airport to Pete’s front door.

Patrick tracked Pete’s gaze down to his suitcase, “Oh, don’t worry. I wasn’t planning on invading for more than a couple hours or so, if you’re free that long. I have a hotel booked just across town.” 

“Why did you fly out?” Pete asked, “Last I heard, you hated LA. Not exactly a prime vacation choice.”

Pete wished he could have been there to see Patrick walk through the arrival doors. He hated airports as much as anyone, with their bad-coffee smell and the ever-present anxiety that buzzed through the crowded foyers, but he always felt better if somebody was there to welcome. He didn’t like thinking about Patrick having to navigate the maze that LAX without else there with him. Anyway, watching someone arrive was infinitely better than watching somebody depart, even if it gave him that cyclical fear of abandonment that now Patrick was here, he’d have to leave again. Pete didn’t want him to leave again.

“Trust me, I still do. The airport is proof enough of that. I had a couple appointments that couldn’t be in Chicago. Figured I’d try and get some producing work done while I’m here, make a couple weeks of it.” Patrick explained, walking into the kitchen after Pete without removing his gloves.

Pete smiled back at him, a knowing look that was lost on Patrick, “Needed to escape the Windy City for a while?”

“Honestly? Never.” Patrick disputed, “I’m really only here because I have to be. I try not to make a habit of making appointments all the way across the country.”

Pete was leaning back against the counter, feeling like they were slipping a little deeper than casual conversation. It felt different to how it used to, and Pete feels like the one laid bare in this discussion is Patrick rather than himself, but the basis was the same. If their roles had been reversed all these years, he would have supported Patrick just as Patrick had supported him. Patrick had given up so many hours and so many nights for Pete, he was willing to help Patrick with as much as he could. 

“What changed about these ones?” He asked.

Patrick’s face shuttered like a curtain drawing across him, “Being far enough from home that I don’t have to talk about it to anyone.” 

Pete nodded, “I’m not going to push you. I want you to be comfortable here. You’re alright, though, yeah? Promise?”

Patrick relaxed visibly, his shoulders dropping and a small smile gracing his delicate features, “Promise. It’s not what I expected for your home. I was thinking more black and a lot messier, honestly. It’s good, even though I can tell how much of it was Ashlee’s doing rather than yours.” 

“Yeah, it’s got that Simpson family vibe, right?”

Pete agreed. The house was more suited to Ashlee than it was to him. Pete would have furnished the place like he did his old apartment, dark and monochrome with more Tim Burton paraphernalia. Instead, there had been professional interior designers and kitchen fitters and a ‘colour scheme expert’ who specialised in Beverly Hills chic. It wasn’t bad, a livable house that was respectful enough for guests and the occasional interviewer, with a large garden and a pool. It didn’t feel much like a home, though. It was like living in a showroom, and Patrick looked equally uncomfortable there even in spite of his compliments.

“Also, this is Ashlee’s.” Pete explained, confessed, gesturing to the bright color of his lips, “She bought a new one and this one hadn’t quite run out. I got bored.”

“Things are going okay, then? I got the impression from the tabloids that your marriage was in shambles. They’re treating it like the end of the world.”

Since when did Patrick have to find out about Pete’s life through the tabloids? Pete was going to make a much more concerted effort to keep in touch with people outside of his manager and Ashlee, once Patrick went back to Chicago. He didn’t know much about what had been going on in Patrick’s life either, truth be told, but he guessed that if he’d called then he would have found out. He knew that Patrick was anxious about calling people, and he’d let it slip his mind to phone Patrick first. He knew about the EP and the upcoming solo album, though, through what some of their mutual friends had been promoting online.

“It’s not great,” Pete admits, “But it’s not the end of the world, I guess. She still lives here, which is a good sign. I’m not holding out much hope, though, if I’m honest.”

Patrick gave him a sympathetic smile, “If you need some distraction, I bought action movies.”

It sounded like Patrick was trying to distract himself, as well. He’d never needed extra entertainment to hang out with Pete until now, apparently. Pete’s tongue felt dry in his mouth and he’d forgotten what talking to Patrick was like, and what he should be saying. From what he could gather of Patrick’s awkward posture, he was thinking the same thing. Patrick looked to the ground before lifting his head to meet Pete’s eyes once again.

“Or I could help you do that lipstick properly, if you want?” Patrick suggested.

Pete was startled by what Patrick had offered, but by no means disappointed. It felt a little like dangerous ground, like the bridge between them was thin ice that they were both taking risks to stand on. Whenever Pete considered what he missed most about Patrick, it was everything, the awkward makeup thing included. If Patrick wasn’t uncomfortable with it, if they weren’t relating it back to that one incident that occurred just before they’d parted ways. It was inevitable, really, that they’d have to tackle the subject at some point.

Pete was still cautious, though, as he checked, “Yeah?”

“I still can’t believe you didn’t even look at a YouTube tutorial or something before you tried this.” Patrick joked, avoiding the awkwardness like he was merely stepping over an obstacle. Like it was nothing to worry about. 

“Nobody else was supposed to see it.” Pete defended.

Patrick shook his head, though it was fond rather than mean, and clarified, “For yourself, dumbass. I know you like looking nice.”

“I thought you might have assumed Ashlee did it.” Pete said, warily.

There was something buried in that statement about jealousy, Patrick was sure. He knew that when Pete said ‘it’ he wasn’t just referring to the lipstick.

“Pete, Ashlee was probably doing her own makeup perfectly by the age of three. I know she isn’t behind this mess. Does she know about it, though?”

Pete scoffed, “Me digging her old lipstick out of the trash to put on my face? Not at all.”

“No, dickhead. The whole makeup thing.” Patrick said amiably.

“No. I never told her.”

Patrick continued, “She’d be better than me at it. She’d have a field day doing your makeup, I can tell.”

Pete felt uneasy, suddenly, when he pictured Ashlee in Patrick’s place. She’d be a pro at doing his makeup, yeah, but it wouldn’t be as easy and familiar as it was with Patrick. He felt like Ashlee would treat it like a game rather than something Pete enjoyed for what it was, at face value. 

“It’s not really our thing. Me and Ashlee.”

“It should be.” Patrick told him, “Because I know it’s more than just doing your makeup, Pete. That’s why we’re not doing the whole performance right now.”

“We’re not?” Pete questioned, out of curiosity rather than desire. He wanted it to not be a sex thing, for once. He wanted to see if Patrick still fit him like a puzzle piece, see if they could still have this without all of the complications.

“No. I’m just going to do your lipstick. It’s not my place, Pete.”

Pete conceded, “I know. I remember what you said last time.”

He was leading Patrick towards the master bedroom. He hoped it didn’t seem suspect, didn’t come across like he was hitting on Patrick because for the first time in history, he wasn’t. It just happened to be where Ashlee’s vanity was located, where Pete had left the lipstick to stow away in his own drawer later. The vanity cabinet itself had a large mirror backlit with warm, off-white lighting; should have been perfect for when Pete had been attempting to do his own makeup earlier. He’d ended up in front of the sink in the bathroom, however, because his inexperience at doing makeup in dimly lit rooms was obvious as soon as he stepped into the bright hallway. 

“Huh, same. Clear as fucking day in my head.” Patrick agreed, he paused for a moment as Pete wandered over to pick up the tube of lipstick, “The appointment I’m here for is therapy, Pete.”

Pete spun around, “What? Patrick, you said you were alright.” 

Now Patrick looked really uncomfortable. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights, stuttering and tripping over phrases, “I lied. It’s not, like, awful. Don’t get me wrong, it’s just. Dealing with issues before they get worse, you know? I hope you know. I mean, look at me: I’m not healthy. I don’t know how much got relayed to you through other people.”

Pete thought back carefully over every significant conversation he'd had where Patrick had been mentioned, there were a lot but none that concerned him, and then answered, “Pretty much nothing, Patrick. I got the sense that people were worried about you, but it didn't seem like much more than nerves about going solo.”

“I admit, that's one thing. After we played the last gig, everyone except me just up and left. I didn't really know who to talk to. You were having fun and building a new life for yourself in a town that I hated, Joe and Andy came out here too. I didn't really want to disturb any of you, because that's why we took a break, wasn't it? To get away from each other’s problems?”

Pete couldn't disagree, but they shouldn't have separated themselves so completely at the expense of Patrick’s health, “It was, but if you were really struggling you could always have spoken to me.”

“I wasn't really in the right frame of mind to be reaching out to people. That's not how I do things, Pete.” 

Pete understood, “I know it doesn't change anything now, me saying that. In future, though, you know I'm here.” 

“It's a little late for that. I'm suffering a shitty withdrawal and I'm almost twenty pounds underweight. That’s why I have those appointments.” Patrick responded, wryly.

“Withdrawal. Drugs?”

“Over the counter antidepressants and alcohol, actually. Haven't you heard that the best way to diet is vodka and starving yourself? Not that I got that far.”

He didn't understand how Patrick could talk so lightly of such painful problems. Pete knew how volatile the inside of Patrick’s head could be, but he'd never had an outright breakdown before. At least, not where Pete could see. Maybe Patrick was one of those people who dealt with bad situations by turning them into dry humour.

“Seriously,” Patrick continued, “I just wanted to tell you. I can't keep secrets any better than you can.”

“I'm glad you did tell me.” Pete stated, “I feel a little bit more like I know you again.” 

“You know me better than anyone else, even now. They say you need to fall apart so that you can rebuild, right? Or something like that, something about cracks in foundations and needing to fix the fundamental flaws rather than just the superficial ones. We're different, grown in different ways from different experiences, but at least this is the same, right?”

Pete regarded him with a sense of nostalgia, almost in awe of how Patrick thought and spoke. He remarked, “That was insightful. Like you've reached peak three-in-the-morning philosophy but at one in the afternoon.”

“I try. Pass the lipstick.”

\-----

When Patrick got back home to his apartment in Chicago, there was a postcard on the doorstep stamped with a perfectly-shaped lipstick stain. Above it was scrawled, ‘Get better soon, so we can go on some adventures. Love from your best friend- Pete’

 

\-----  
6.

Awards shows were one of the worst parts of the job, in Patrick’s opinion. Not so much if they were actually receiving one, though giving acceptance speeches was a special hell of it’s own, or if they were performing. If they were performing it was fantastic, an audience broader than their usual and often receptive, Patrick took it like the compliment it was. Some awards shows, however, they attended merely as guests. Sometimes in support of one of their friends label-mates, but sometimes out of a contractual obligation to show their faces in public from time to time. 

Patrick kept his expression schooled into his photoshoot-face, because if he was going to be under constant camera scrutiny then he was at least going to try not to embarrass himself by making a stupid face just as the film cut to the audience. There was a red carpet with photos and interview questions, microphones shoved in his face when really all they were there for was to sit pretty and fill seats. He was late enough to skip the majority of red carpet kerfuffle that time, a tardiness which was less accidental and more self-preservation, so by the time he’d worked his way through the labyrinth of a crowd to find his friends, they were already being ushered inside.

They all looked sharp; picture-perfect gentlemen in their suits and ties. Pete’s hair had been done professionally before he arrived, because shorter hair did not necessarily mean neater where Pete was concerned, and he was smiling widely. Unlike Patrick, Pete was sure to say that awards shows were one of his favourite things about being a recognisable musician. At least he was more recognisable than Patrick. He was so much more visible nowadays, though not in that toxic tabloid way he used to be. It was his internet presence and his interactions with fans and magazines that made him an icon, recently. He was no longer known solely for bad paparazzi photographs and regrettable haircuts, and Patrick was so proud of him that he found it difficult to express.

The whole show lasted hours, almost four hours of presentations and performances. Patrick had to admit, some of it was impressive. They certainly hadn’t wasted the expense on lighting and effects, every single performer was backed up by a spectacular light-show, pyrotechnics and colours aplenty. It didn’t change the fact that Patrick was bored out of his skull with nothing to do, but it was a little more tolerable for it. What was even more tolerable was the casual way Pete rested his arm over Patrick’s, letting Patrick tap rhythms on his skin through speech after speech, nomination after nomination. It was comforting that Pete still didn’t find Patrick’s fidgeting annoying, and he never tried to stop him. 

“Hey, are you alright?” Pete asked, nudging his arm subtly.

“Other than going stir crazy from not moving all evening?” Patrick snarked, before changing the subject completely, “It’s a good show.”

Pete nodded. His eyes had been glued to the stage throughout the entire evening, not straying about like Patrick’s. While Patrick was occupied playing word games in his head or trying to count the amount of people wearing unconventionally-coloured jackets, Pete’s attention was firmly affixed to all of the people nominated and awarded, their speeches and achievements. He was friends with far more of these people than Patrick, more than Andy or even Joe were. Patrick wondered at what point he’d managed to join that exclusive group of Hollywood socialites, slipping into their familiarity in between the breakdowns of the late two-thousand’s, perhaps. People smiled and called to him as they made their way back to their seats and Patrick ducked his head. He really wasn’t cut out for this.

“Yeah, it is. I’m more worried about you, though, Patrick. Why were you late?”

“Phone meeting.” Patrick lied, brushing off the question as quickly as he could.

Pete gave him a confused frown, “With the label?”

“No!” Patrick denied, “No, okay, it wasn’t a phone interview. I just couldn’t deal with a red carpet on top of this, alright? No big deal.” 

Pete looked him in the eyes, trying to pick out if he was still lying. After a moment, when he wasn’t frowning but wasn’t smiling either, he replied, “As long as you’re okay. I know it’s tough.”

“Thanks,” Patrick whispered, “I’m alright.”

There was a moment’s quiet, chatter rising in the audience as the next band set up on the second stage. Patrick could pick out people congratulating the previous winner, somebody who was sitting only a few rows ahead of them. Joe was animatedly chatting to Andy, who was quietly agreeing and otherwise acting like Patrick, trying to make himself unseen. After scanning the auditorium once more (why hadn’t he noticed the shape of the ceiling up until now? It was like a dome) his focus landed back on Pete, who was watching him with an air of friendly amusement.

Patrick cleared his throat, feeling the need to fill the gap in conversation all of a sudden, “Loving your suit, by the way. I might need to steal that tie at some point, though.”

“Thank you,” Pete preened, “I wouldn’t mind, if you wanted to trade ties.”

“Trade? Like trading cards?” Patrick laughed, trying to keep his volume low, “I’ll swap you three striped ties for that rare paisley.”

Pete had no such concerns about his own laughter, clearly. He laughed shamelessly and loudly, his face crinkling into that true-laugh shape that Patrick liked, even if he sounded obnoxious and braying. Joe glanced around at the noise, as did a few people in the rows behind and ahead of them, as Patrick stared in an embarrassed state of shock. He batted Pete’s arm, just hard enough to catch his attention, in an attempt to stop the scene that he was causing.

“You’re a nerd.” Pete told him, fondly, “Also, I’d totally give you a paisley for two striped ties if you asked nicely. How much for that piano tie I always see laying around your house?”

Patrick attempted to look offended, but his smile ruined the image as he replied, “That’s a personal treasure.”

“Seriously though, wanna trade?” Pete asked earnestly, “This tie would match your jacket so well, Patrick, you have to at least try it.”

Patrick groaned in exasperation, “I can tell that the cameras are going to cut to close-ups of our row just as we do this. What’re the fans going to think?”

“Nothing they haven’t already, I’m sure.”

“Shush, Pete.” Patrick batted him again, “Alright, I give up. We’ll switch ties, but be quick about it.”

Pete started fiddling with the knot of his tie, loosening it in that uncoordinated manner of his. How did he ever become a bass-player? Patrick lost himself in that thought as he watched Pete struggle with the accessory that has so obviously been tied for him. The tie itself, Patrick thought, would actually match his jacket quite nicely. It was navy blue, likely silk, and patterned with waves in a way that was unnoticeable until it caught the light. It looked like ripples in the churning Pacific, or the choppy surface of Lake Michigan in the winter. Pete’s hands finally found give in the knot and then Patrick’s comparison was distracted, pulled instead to the delicate movements of Pete’s fingers. Now he could see how Pete became a bass-player.

Pete shrugged as he pulled the tie loose from beneath his collar, “At least we’re not switching ties during the interval. Imagine the assumptions people would make then.” 

“I don’t even want to think about it.” Patrick replied, beginning to unknot his own striped tie, “I hope you don’t embarrass me later when people ask you about it on Twitter.”

“Would I ever?” Pete asked, like he was questioning Patrick’s faith in God. Or Patrick’s faith in Elvis Costello, more realistically. 

“Yes. Many times.” Patrick pointed out, “Pass it.”

Patrick knotted the tie in a Windsor around his collar with ease, a sequence of motions learnt by rote since his childhood. The tie did suit him, better than his own, even. It was a different shape, a more modern, skinny tie than Patrick’s traditional one. The colour was similar to his, but less plain. He almost didn’t want to give it back. While he was tying Pete’s tie around his own neck, Pete was knotting his simply. A schoolboy knot.

“This is nice.” Patrick commented, “It’s better than mine.”

“Yeah, I think it’s designer? Not sure. Pretty, though.” Pete commented, and looked down at Patrick’s tie, “You need to get some cool ties. I need to take you tie-shopping, Patrick.”

“Feel free.” Patrick acquiesced, “Where do you even go to buy ties?” 

Pete shrugged, still quietly laughing, “I don’t know, specifically? I’ll Google it. Not wherever the hell this one is from, though.”

“I think it was Walmart.” Patrick admitted, “Don’t laugh, trust me, I am fully aware of how pathetic that is.”

“It’s not the best.” Pete agrees, then tugs it loose from his neck, ”It doesn’t suit me, anyway.”

He rolled the tie into a small ball of fabric and winked at Patrick as he tucked it in his pocket. A trade was a trade, whether he was wearing it or not. For good measure, he unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and straightened his shirt. Patrick wondered if Pete knew how distracting it was every time he tilted his head and exposed the line of his neck. Probably not. He probably didn’t even consider that Patrick could still be affected by details like that. Pete looked back at the stage, having shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Maybe it really was just getting hot in there.

Either way, Patrick wasn’t sure if the remaining time spent in the audience just got a whole lot harder or a whole lot more enjoyable.

 

\-----

 

“Ugh, why do I live so far away?” Patrick complained, “It’s like an hour and a half drive from here, with the traffic from the show.”

The air outside was startlingly cold after four hours in a heated auditorium. Even for California, Patrick was disquieted by the temperature. He hadn’t bought a coat, wasn’t sure if he even had a coat in his Los Angeles apartment, and his jacket was summer-thin. Pete, the bastard, didn’t seem to feel the cold as much as Patrick did. He wasn’t even shivering, though he had put his jacket back on as he stepped out of the doors.

“I don’t know, maybe you were sticking to the claim that you hate LA by keeping yourself in the distant suburbs?” Pete joked.

Patrick huffed, “Yeah, but-” 

“Kidding, Patrick.” Pete interrupted, “You can crash at mine. It’s way closer.”

“I don’t want to impose.” 

“You wouldn’t be. I’ve got a taxi booked and everything, Patrick, and it’s late.” 

Patrick opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, insist that he had to go home or that he appreciated the offer but had to refuse. Then he stopped, looked up at Pete like he was searching for something, and then nodded sharply. 

Patrick took a deep breath, “Okay. I’ll repay you or something, though. Buy breakfast.” 

“You don’t have to.” Pete told him, “But I guess it would be nice.”

The taxi rank was full of drivers, many holding signs with names written in block letters across them. Pete was dragging Patrick by the arm as he weaved through the crowd, his eyes skimming over the sea of whiteboards and dismissing them just as quickly. It reminded Patrick of the taxi drivers who waited at airport arrivals lounging, all lined up and waiting for customers to walk through the doors. Patrick was never one of them, even seeing other people’s relieved looks as they spotted their name, it had never occurred to him to do the same. He suspected that Pete was the kind of person to book taxis everywhere he could, never mind that he had a perfectly functioning car.

“I hate walking through these things.” Pete expressed, near-shouting over the buzz of chatter, “I asked if my taxi driver could wear bright purple instead of holding a sign, but they said no.”

“What a surprise.”

“Hey, over here!” Pete exclaimed, pointing to a sign that Patrick couldn’t even read without his glasses on. It looked like cursive.

The taxi was a nice break from the theatre seats, clearly a higher-end company than Patrick would have booked. He liked Pete’s expensive taste, though, because every time he went to lunch with Pete, out to event with Pete or even just round to Pete’s house, it felt a little bit like luxury. Relaxing into the comfortable leather interior, he gave Pete a thankful smile. Pete smiled back, revelling in the serenity of it and he’d missed Patrick so much the last few years that it felt like he was being spoiled by all of this Patrick-time.

 

\-----

 

“Hey, Patrick,” Pete started, breaking the quiet of the room, “I was just wondering-”

Patrick looked up from his phone, “Yeah?”

“Could you maybe do my makeup?” Pete asked, “Like, fully?”

“Of course, Pete.” Patrick answered, pocketing his phone and standing up to follow Pete, who was leading him out of the living room, “What do you want me to do?”

Pete shrugged and smiled, offering Patrick the control, “Whatever you think would look best.” 

“Let me see what you’ve got.” 

Pete picked up both a makeup case and a soft zip bag and handed them to Patrick. Patrick opened the zip bag first, rifling through the contents and picking out any items of interest, placing them on the duvet next to him. The case was a lot more exciting, featuring pans and palettes of colours that Patrick had never seen before, a selection of brushes and sponges kept in a compartment inside the lid. He grinned, choosing a few more options from within the case, before lifting his head back up to look at Pete.

“There’s some nice stuff here.” Patrick remarked, joking “Have you been cheating on me with another makeup artist?”

“Never. I tried to do it myself once or twice.” Pete answered seriously, “Mostly I just collected colours I liked, or brands that I heard were good. I had my skin tone matched at a proper beauty store, though, so I now have the right colour foundation.”

“I’m thinking minimal,” Patrick told him, and Pete was almost disappointed until Patrick continued, “You know, to play up your natural features.”

Pete felt his face flush, and was that really still happening? Blushing every time Patrick paid him a compliment? He was fairly sure that he should have gotten used to it right now. Pete never knew how to respond, never knew how to flirt back with Patrick because once Patrick had hold of a conversation, he was almost always left floundering. When Patrick paid him compliments it was like his mind ground to a halt. One thought had entered his mind as soon as Patrick had spoken, and it was a battle against himself to say it without stuttering.

“Are you telling me that I’m pretty enough without makeup, Patrick?” Pete asked coyly.

Patrick smiled, tilting his head back slightly so that he seemed almost taller than Pete, “You are, but that’s not the point. The point is that I’ve improved at this, and I’m going to show you how subtle is truly done. Except lipstick, because that dark cherry red is calling out to me.”

“That’s maybe the gayest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“It’s probably on a level with you calling my lips a pretty colour that one time.” Patrick reminded him. Pete wasn’t sure if he’d ever live that down, but he’d never regretted saying it, not even as Patrick added, “Smelled like peaches. Do you still have that one?”

Pete nodded dumbly, “I do, but it’s a new one. It’s a favourite of mine, so I’ve had to replace it once or twice.”

Patrick directed Pete to sit in the chair at the vanity, directly in front of the mirror until Patrick spun his chair to the side so that he could get a decent angle on Pete’s face. He selected a couple of the things he’d previously laid out at the end of the bed and placed them delicately on the vanity cabinet. Pete looked half-gone already with his mouth parted slightly and his eyes half-hooded, looking at Patrick like Patrick was a winner and he was offering himself as a prize.

“Okay, let’s get this started.” Patrick began, “Primer, foundation and concealer first. Then we can move on to the fun part.”

“Can you keep talking?” Pete asked.

Patrick nodded as he started spreading the primer across Pete’s face like a gentle massage, not missing a beat as he narrated, “Your face is nice and smooth. You must have shaved literally right before the awards show, right? And moisturised. You know how to take care of yourself, and it makes this so much easier for me.” 

Pete answered, though he wasn’t sure if Patrick meant him to, “I did. Not like I planned this though.”

“I can tell. You look a little like you think you’re dreaming.” 

“Maybe I am.”

Patrick laughed and his laugh was deep and soft, “Not this time. Though it’s nice to know that you’ve had dreams about this. You’re not the only one, either.”

“Your laugh is like honey.” Pete blurted.

Patrick did it again, a warm sound that spread over Pete like a wave of heat, “I’m glad. I’m pretty sure I could live off nothing but your laugh, sometimes.”

Patrick stepped back for a moment, and Pete felt the loss of his touch like a physical pain. He was back a second later, his hand on Pete’s shoulder and lifting his hands to hold Pete’s face, smiling as Pete’s eyes opened. Pete hadn’t even been aware of them drifting shut. 

“Eyes. There’s this nice copper eyeshadow that would look nice, and with that eyeliner you know I like it would be fantastic.” Patrick informed him.

“The brown one?”

Patrick nodded, “Yeah, really deep, warm colour.”

“I have it. It’s here on the dressing table, actually.” Pete told him, gesturing lazily to the array of makeup that was lined up along the base of the mirror, “I use that more often than the others.”

“It looks nice on you.” Patrick complimented, and Pete felt that same blush rise to his cheeks.

Patrick brushed the eyeshadow across Pete’s eyelids, not once removing his hand from where it was cradling Pete’s face. His breaths sounded short, puffed out across Pete’s neck and nose and cheeks, so close that it felt like burning. Patrick’s skills truly had improved, if the efficiency and tenderness of his motions were any indicator. 

“Now we do lips.” Patrick stated, “This colour is amazing, Pete. I totally appreciate that have a good eye for colours.”

The colour of the tube was a stark contrast to Patrick’s pale skin. If it were Patrick wearing it, it might look too harsh or even gaudy, but on Pete’s complexion it would be a delight. 

“I’ve never used that one. Feels kind of risky.” Pete confessed as Patrick uncapped the tube.

“It’s bold. Reds are always bold.” Patrick explained, “Bright reds can be playful or killer stylish. Dark reds are more-”

Patrick trailed off, his voice deep and quiet in the silent room. He was sounding more than a little undone himself, his tone gone far past sultry and now breathy, like he was clinging to his decorum by a thread. Pete wouldn’t let him drop it, though. He needed to hear how that sentence would end.

“Yeah?” He prompted.

“Sexy.” Patrick exhaled, “It’s like the lipstick equivalent of bedroom eyes.”

“And you’re putting it on me?” Pete raised an eyebrow.

Patrick was stuttering as he explained, “Yeah. I just. I need to see how good it looks.” 

Pete looked at Patrick, really looked, still in his suit and Pete’s tie. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide and his bottom lip bitten a deeper pink than usual. He was raking his eyes over the planes of Pete’s face, those sharp-lined eyes and sex-red lips, and he looked hungry. Patrick was a paradox of proper and dishevelled, warm flush running from his face all the way down to the collar of his shirt, his hair ruffled from running his hands through it and Pete didn’t really see any other option but to lean forward and crowd Patrick’s space just a little more. 

Then Pete was all over him, hands slipping down from Patrick’s shoulders to his hips as Pete pressed kisses down Patrick’s neck, unbuttoning his shirt collar as he went. Patrick moaned softly at the pressure of Pete’s lips on his throat and thought of those red lipstains on that pale stretch of skin, and then louder as Pete bit down on the sweet spot just above his collarbone. Pete pressed his lips to Patrick’s and surged upwards, standing and walking Patrick backwards towards the bed as Patrick opened his mouth to Pete and let Pete deepen the kiss. 

Pete worked his way through undoing the rest of the buttons on Patrick’s shirt, running his hands down Patrick’s chest and squeezing the soft edges of his belly. Pete’s own shirt was already half-undone, so it wasn’t much effort to slip it over his head and press down on top of Patrick. Patrick spent this time making his own marks on Pete’s neck and shoulders, pulling low sounds from Pete’s throat that he wanted to record, sample them into their next song for all the world to hear. Patrick’s hands were tangled in Pete’s hair, tugging just enough to feel right without edging too far into pain, and then Pete picked up that trail of kisses where he’d left off at Patrick’s collarbone.

Patrick was squirming as Pete kissed all down his chest and stomach, his skin feeling like a live wire ready to spark at every single touch. As Pete slid himself further down Patrick’s body, further down the bed, he lost that precious friction in favour of a perfect view of Patrick’s sinfully slim-fit slacks. 

“You’re going to smudge your lipstick.” Patrick warned, his voice rough.

Pete pouted back up at him, “A little late for that.”  
There was lipstick smeared all around his mouth, and Patrick didn’t dare think about what those red petal stamps looked like all down his torso for fear of pushing himself over the edge before he could experience Pete’s mouth the way he wanted to most. The way Pete was teasing at as he pulled Patrick’s zipper down with his teeth and drew Patrick’s trouser low enough to reveal the perfect, unmarked expanse of his thighs. 

Pete took the opportunity to tease Patrick a little further, neglecting where Patrick really wanted his mouth to be so that he could nip at the soft skin of his thighs, instead. Patrick’s little whimpers and moans were driving Pete onwards, murmurs of his name turning into pleas as he ghosted his breath over the fabric of Patrick’s boxers, finally removing them so that could give in to Patrick’s begging and take him into his mouth.

Pete wasn’t the most skilled at giving blowjobs, but the little experience he had had passed on a few tricks that he liked to use. Matching the bobbing of his head to the strong strokes of his hand, paying attention to the feel of Patrick’s fingers twisting in his hair. When he could sense Patrick getting close, his ramblings becoming increasingly nonsensical as he was reduced to panting Pete’s name on almost every breath, Pete hollowed his cheeks and made sure he was ready to swallow as Patrick came with a sharp cry.

Pete was close himself, the pleasure of giving almost matching the pleasure of receiving, and he moaned as Patrick’s hand joined his own in jerking his own cock, Patrick whispering encouragements as he tightened his grip. It didn’t take long until Pete was coming, white streaks over red marks over pale skin, and then sitting back as his shoulders relaxed and his mind began to clear.

“Damn. I was going to ask you to take my picture with my face all pretty. Kind of missed my chance.” Pete murmured, “Not that I’ll pass on the opportunity to get a snapshot of those pretty kisses all over your body. I definitely want those photos too.”

Patrick wasn’t saying no, not even as Pete reached for his phone to document in close detail the perfect lipstick stains on Patrick’s neck, all the way down to the smeared marks that graced Patrick’s torso like the sweeping curves of a paintbrush. Patrick lay back as Pete photographed it all, leaving out anything condemning because he’d already learnt his lesson on explicit photos, and then dropping his phone as he flopped backwards so that he was laying next to Patrick. Patrick’s head was turned towards him, dopey-looking but not actually asleep, so Pete rolled over onto his side to kiss him.

Patrick’s voice was weak as he answered, “Well I guess we’ll just have to do it again tomorrow.”

“The makeup, or all of it?” Pete questioned.

“Depends how far you’re willing to go.”


End file.
